


Company Ink

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Charles takes seven shots and says some stuff, Drinking Games, Gen, Just going over some potential HR issues with the guys, M/M, Never Have I Ever, could be pre-slash if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Across the cavernous living-slash-game room, Charles had paused at the door more to evaluate the spectacle for any injuries than in response to Pickles’ statement. He’d only been passing through because it was the most efficient route from where he’d been taking care of business to somewhere else where business needed to be done; he really hadn’t expected them to notice his presence.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Company Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 16 prompt, "Dethstaff or the klokateers." Kind of both? Whatever, I'm going to count it as both. 
> 
> Murderface is too deeply in the closet for any of his ~~internalized homophobia~~ objections to be taken seriously, sorry Murderface. 
> 
> And, uh, sorry Canadians. I do know that you have more to offer than maple syrup.

“Nevers have I evers . . . shits in a toilets tank.” 

Toki beamed as most of guys around the table snickered. Except for Murderface, who grumbled and took another shot. 

“Thisch ischn’t fair, you guysch are— _ hic _ —ganging up on me again. . . .”

“My torns, my torns!” Skwisgaar said, ignoring the complaint. “Never has I evers been born in Amerskika!”

Everyone groaned at that one, except for Toki. 

“That’s fucking cheating,” Nathan accused, wiping a dribble from the shot he’d just taken for it from his chin. 

“Yeah, naht cool dood.” Regardless, Pickles cheerfully refilled everyone’s shot glasses as needed, knocking back an extra of his own just for the hell of it. Then his eyes lighted on something at the far end of the room and he called, “Hey chief! You’re in the room, that counts as playin’! Come take yer shot!”

Everyone else swiveled to look. Skwisgaar fell out of his chair into Toki, who kind of caught him but wasn’t steady enough to keep his own chair steady, and it tipped over and dumped them both on the floor. 

Across the cavernous living-slash-game room, Charles had paused at the door more to evaluate the spectacle for any injuries than in response to Pickles’ statement. He’d only been passing through because it was the most efficient route from where he’d been taking care of business to somewhere else where business needed to be done; he really hadn’t expected them to notice his presence. 

“No thank you, Pickles. I’m, ah, afraid I have a very busy afternoon ahead of me.”

Skwisgaar, wobbling to his feet, yelled, “What’s ams you hidings, you borns in Canada or somethings?”

“Canada?” Nathan wrinkled his nose. “Fuck Canada. All they’ve got is . . . maple syrup.”

“Yeah, you think you’re too good to play with usch juscht becaushe you’re Canadian? That’sch fucking raschisht!”

“I’m not—” Charles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. If he looked at it from the right angle, their inane pestering could be construed as taking an interest in him as a person, which was distantly touching. Glass half full, and all that. “Fine.” He made his way over to the table, grabbing one of the extra chairs along the wall. “Pickles, pour me a shot. I was born in Oklahoma.”

This caused a brief riot around the table, to the tune of  _ Oklahoma? Seriously?  _ and  _ What’s even  _ in _ Oklahoma anyway? _ and  _ That means your state or birth is OK! Get it?!  _ But in the end, Charles took his shot and refused to answer any questions. 

“There. I’ve played. Is that sufficient, can I go now?”

“Nah, we’re just gettin started.” Pickles rubbed his hands together. “Okie, lessee. . . . Never have I ever learned another language.”

“Toki and Sckischgaar only need to take half a schot each, their Englisch schuchksch.”

Skwisgaar flipped Murderface off, and Toki stuck out his tongue. They took their shots. 

Charles took a shot as well. 

“One for each language,” Nathan insisted. 

“And we know you speak a bunch,” Pickles added, “so no lyin’.”

“Fine.” All five members of Dethklok had a tendency to latch onto things with the intensity of a dog worrying a bone. Charles’ mouth tightened into a grim line as he mentally wrote off the rest of the day and counted off on his fingers. “Latin, Italian, German, Russian, Japanese, Swedish, and Norwegian. Pour me six more while I send a few texts to delegate and move some meetings around.”

He took the first to right away, then signaled discretely for the klokateer to bring him a bottled water. 

“My turn,” Charles said, and his tone of voice brooked no argument. “Never have I ever played a metal concert onstage.”

“Cheaps shot. . . .”

They took their shots dutifully, while he finished off another two of his. He’d had lunch not long ago, at least, but he was already starting to feel the booze hitting his system. Two more to go, not counting however many more rounds there might be. . . . 

Well. At least with so much security around, none of them would likely be allowed to die of alcohol poisoning. He took his last two with a shudder and braces himself for whatever was coming next. 

Pickles poured another round. “Me next. Never have I ever fucked any’a the hoods.” He pointed, helpfully, at the Klokateer who was just then handing Charles the requested bottle of water. Awkwardly, the Klokateer hurried off to resume his post. 

“Uh, Picklesch, that’sch . . . that’sch pretty gay.”

“Dood, there are ladies on the payroll too. We’ve all seen ‘em.” The drummer smirked around the table. “Come on, fess up. It only counts if they were wearin’ their hoods when you talked ‘em inta doin’ it. Or, heh, if they wore it during. That too.”

There was a long pause while everyone eyed each other expectantly. Then, Skwisgaar reached for his shot glass. 

“Oh wowees Skwisgaar, realies?”

“Ja. I mean, whys nots? Ladies ams ladies, and they was nots ons the clock.”

Pickles snorted out a laugh and took a shot too. In answer to the looks directed his way, he shrugged. “Hey, I was thirsty and curious. Sue me.”

“They could, you know,” Charles pointed out. “They could, ah, sue you. Employer employee relationships don’t tend to be smiled upon in the courts.”

“Hey,” Nathan said, as though something had just occurred to him, “Charles, how come you didn’t drink?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ja,” Skwisgaar said, turning and squinting at him suspiciously. Or maybe he was just seeing double—god only knew how long they’d been playing this game. “Never sees you with nobodies, you never brings no ones home. . . .”

“Yeah, how do you ever meet ladiesch?”

“Or dudes,” Toki added diplomatically, and ignored Murderface’s theatrical gagging noises at the idea. 

Nathan nodded. “Yeah, you never meet anyone unless it’s for business shit. How else would you ever get laid if you don’t, uh, you know. Dip your dick in the company ink or whatever.”

Charles took a deep breath in through his nose. “Alright look, I am being serious here.” He might’ve been working a little harder than usual to enunciate, but he was  _ serious  _ dammit. “I have not, nor would I ever, had sexual or romantic entanglements with anyone employed by Dethklok Inc.”

The five band members considered this. 

“How come?” Pickles asked finally. 

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well. 

“Because it’s unequal from the start, and that’s not my, ah, ‘thing.’ If i were to be involved with anyone it I’d want it to be someone on exactly the same footing, and I manage your guys’ entire financial empire. I’m not trying to, ah, oversell myself here, but we have our own place in the top twenty world economies. It’s a lot of responsibility, and takes up most of my time on a daily basis. I’d need a partner who understands that and is okay with not always being my first priority.”

“So . . . you don’ts have sex with  _ nobodies _ ?”

“That’s private, Toki.” Charles fiddled with an empty shot glass, feeling the stickiness of dripped alcohol on the glass, on the tabletop, on his fingers. Against his better judgement, he added, “But, ah, no. Not for a while.”

Had they been Catholic, they would’ve crossed themselves as if to ward off such a terrible fate from attaching to them by association somehow. As it was, a lot of shuddering and trying not to look as though they’d just found out someone had  _ died _ happened. 

Then Murderface blurted out, “Never have I ever gone more than a few monthsch between getting laid!”

And Charles dutifully took his shot, and they all whooped, and those close enough clapped him on the back, and the game continued. It did feel nice to be included, after all. 


End file.
